


Triad

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Broken people, Codependency, Consensual Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Love, M/M, Rough Sex, Sub Greg House, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation, moderately heavy D/s dynamics, oh my so much angst, self-hating kinkster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 18:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Doing the 10 Fics/10 Songs challenge again, this time in the Houseverse. Playlist goes on shuffle and for the first ten songs that come up I write a short fic inspired by it.Fic 5: Jefferson Airplane - TriadSummary: Wilson is dating Amber, but someone else was there first.





	Triad

“She'll never give you what you need.”

House says it so casually, like he's throwing out a tidbit of information about some obscure blues artist that Wilson has never heard of. He keeps his eyes focused on the file open before him, trying to focus on ineffective chemo and clinical trials. “Go away, House.”

He doesn't. Wilson can feel his gaze, heavy, the scorn brimming within them. He takes a step closer to Wilson's desk. “You're an idiot,” he continues. “You're sacrificing a huge part of yourself so you can play house with a woman you're not even slightly compatible with. She doesn't _need_ you, Wilson. And you'd certainly be better off without her.”

Wilson swallows. Don't rise to it. Don't let him see that hit home. “On my planet," he says, "'go away' means 'remove yourself from my presence immediately'.". 

“And on mine...” The rubbery end of House's cane lands on the papers before him, the flame pattern at the base almost as infuriating as the words coming out of his mouth. Wilson lets the file drop to his desk, regarding him with a sigh. “'... 'Go away' means that Jimmy's shutting me out because he knows I'm right. Thoughts?”

Wilson sighs again. House imitates the sound. He does this all the time at the moment, goading, berating, looking for a reaction. Hoping that Wilson will surrender and say “fine, I'll dump her.” But he can't. And yet, he can't give House up either. The guilt he's become so expert at evading rises, tasting bitter in his mouth as he says, “why are you doing this, House?”

“I'm going to answer your question with a question,” House replies. “Why does the man who wants to talk about everything not want to discuss this?”

“Because I'm busy,” Wilson says, but before the words are out of his mouth, House is talking over him.

“Actually, I have two questions: what Cut-throat Bitch should have meant for us, she didn't. Why not?”

“Stop calling her that!” He tries to swat House's cane off of his desk, but he just jabs it back again.

House's eyes are gleaming. “Cut-throat Bitch, Cut-throat Bitch, Cut-throat Bitch...”

“Shut up, House! Just _ shut up!_!” 

Wilson isn't sure who is more startled; House, whose mouth instantly slams shut, the taunting expression completely obliterated from his face, or himself, as a sting courses through his hand. It takes him a moment to realise he just slammed his fist on his desk. 

"Interesting," House says eventually.

“I'm so sorry,” Wilson's throat feels like sandpaper. “I didn't mean to...”

House nods. Glances towards the door. “I know. Guess I'll go now.”

“Wait.” Wilson stands up. 

House regards him with curiosity. "What? You wanted me to go. Make up your mind."

Wilson closes his eyes a moment, unable to believe he's going to suggest this, right now. “I want you to go and lock the door," he says. "Then come to me and get on your knees.”

He can't help himself. He just can't. It should feel surreal, it should feel _wrong_, especially when House doesn't even look surprised at his proposition.

He hesitates for a fraction of a moment; then, because he can't help himself either, he lowers his eyes to the floor and grabs the keys off of Wilson's desk.

**

Amber isn't Wilson's type. God knows people keep pointing that out. She's fierce, manipulative, rude; has no qualms about stepping on other people's faces to get what she wants. She's a lot like someone else Wilson knows. But House is right: she doesn't need him. She doesn't need him like House does. And Wilson can't tolerate the thought of giving that up.

So they carry on in secret. Wilson does things with House that he could never do with Amber.

They have the incredibly fucked up arrangement in place, the shared custody time, the outcome of that first great battle between House and Amber that even Cuddy got involved in. On the nights Amber has him, they watch TV and share a bottle of wine. They talk about Wilson's caseload, Amber's ambitions. They read side by side in bed before they go to sleep, but Amber doesn't want to cuddle as they drift off. She finds it hot and uncomfortable.

On the nights he's with House, they'll go to his apartment and Wilson will flick through his cable, resting his feet on House's back as he props himself up on the floor on his hands and knees for as long as his bad leg will allow. When he starts to tremble, Wilson hoists him upright, opens his pants and has House worship his cock until he sighs and cums in his mouth. Then House will strip and Wilson will bind his hands behind his head, stroking his cock until he's at the edge of orgasm, over and over again until House is weeping and pleading for mercy. Usually he grants it; sometimes he doesn't. The aftercare used to be even better than the sex, the only time House would really allow him to hold him and kiss him all over, but these days he can't stay long enough. When he tells House he needs to get home, back to Amber, he feigns indifference, and Wilson pretends this is all perfectly normal. Pretends that he doesn't want to stay and hold him all night, pretends that House is just busy when he doesn't see him for the whole of the next day.

Amber can take care of herself. She rarely needs a shoulder to cry on, seldom comes to him with a problem she can't figure out on her own. House limps around in his bubble of insanity, Wilson right behind him, ready to clean up the shards of chaos he leaves behind. 

Wilson loves Amber, or at least he's fairly sure he does. It's a gentle, easy thing, their relationship, no fights, no real excitement, but that's how it should be, right? 

He loves House too, but it's completely different. It's a thrill. The fights where they throw poison at each other, words they can never cram back in their mouths, the subsequent pain almost as intoxicating as the love making and tender declarations when they make up... it's electrifying, and Wilson has to pretend he doesn't miss it, that he and House were never _serious_. That they're still not.

But electrifying, even now, is the only way he can describe it. He's taking House on the couch in his office, his good leg propped up on his shoulder, fucking him with slow, teasing thrusts. He's so deep inside him, and it's maddening, and House has his eyes closed, muttering “harder, please, harder, fuck me” over and over again, his need naked, and Wilson can taste it, in the sweat forming on his clavicle as he nibbles at his neck, in House's touch as he claws at his back, frenzied, euphoric.

Wilson could never fuck Amber like this. The first and last time he tried to broach the BDSM topic with her, she'd looked at him like he was insane. And that had been the end of that..

He clamps a hand over House's mouth, and his eyes fly open in surprise. “Ssh. You want the whole hospital to hear you, you shameless bitch?”

House moans at his words, arching up against him. Unable to resist, Wilson quickens his pace, thrusting hard into him as he stares down at his beautiful, contorted face. 

“That's it,” he murmurs. “Look at me. Look _right_ at me while I take what's mine.”

It's good, _so_ good, and they shouldn't be doing this here, shouldn't be doing this at all, but they can't stop, can't ever fucking _stop_, it's ecstasy. Wilson is vicious and feral, and he can't get close enough to House, can't get deep enough inside of him; he shoves his fingers into House's mouth, grabs at exposed flesh on his hips, his arms, digging his fingers in until House purrs in pain, presses bruising kisses to his jaw, his lips, his bare chest, pawing at his open shirt, and House is still, submissive, clinging and clinging to him, never protesting, surrendering completely. When Wilson wraps his hand around his leaking cock, House gives a strangled cry and buries his head into his shoulder, quivering, aching for release, wanting and aching and wanting...

“I need this,” he's murmuring in House's ear. He can't bear the way House grabs at him, pulling him closer and closer, like he's trying to merge them into one. “I'm so sorry, House... you're right, you're always right, I need this... need you... I'm so sorry, my darling, my good boy...”

If Wilson didn't know any better, he might have thought he heard a quiet sob against his shoulder. Something burns in his throat, his own eyes starting to mist over, and he pulls House into a strained,one-armed embrace as he thrusts and strokes until they hit release seconds apart.

Wilson's hands are trembling as he re-fastens his tie. House is still sitting on the couch, staring at the floor as he buttons his shirt. “You okay?” Wilson asks.

“I'm fine,” he says. There's enough irritability in his tone for Wilson to know not to push it any further.

He makes a show of returning to his desk, of carrying on as normal. The morning has crawled by, and no doubt there'll be more of the same this afternoon. Wilson used to be brilliant at throwing himself into his work, distracting himself, but right now focusing is impossible. He wants to let the silence roll on, but there are so many things he's desperate to say, if he could only piece together quite how. He wonders what's on House's mind, what he would say if he was capable of communicating like a normal human being. 

“It's not right, House," he says eventually. He can't help himself. The words tumble out with urgency, uncontrolled. House looks up, vague, disinterested, and Wilson doesn't blame him because he's heard it all before. “What we're doing. You know that, right?”

House rolls his eyes. “Oh, relax, Jimmy. Yeah, we're a bit freaky, but I'm a fuck up who can't see sex as anything other than punishment, and you're a complete mess with no control over your life so you take it out on me. It's how we're wired, baby.”

“That's not what I meant. And anyway, you know all that stuff is bullshit.”

“Is it?”

He's smirking. When House isn't berating him for his choices, he's detached, poking fun at the whole thing, and that's even worse. He knows him well enough to realise that he's trying to mask how deep his despair actually runs, and it kills him. Wilson runs his palms over his face. That stinging at the back of his eyes is back, and he blinks furiously. Like self-pity will make a difference to any of this. To what he's doing to House, to Amber. He draws a breath, voice wavering as he says, “I hate how much I'm hurting you."

“But I love it, Master.” He's still avoiding, still being sarcastic. He retrieves his pills from his pocket, not looking at Wilson as he pops three. “Anyway, gotta go. Thirteen had a date last night and word on the street is that said date had boobs. I wanna see if Kutner could find out anything else.”

Wilson watches as he gets to his feet, a little unsteadily. “Don't you have a case?” he asks.

“I heard something about that.” He grins. “Didn't take much of it in, though. All my brain space is taken up by lesbian doctor porn.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. He better not have been fantasising about that while they were fucking. Glancing at the file again, the words blurring and jumbling on the page, he says, “we should talk, House. Properly. Tomorrow night.”

House scoffs. “You don't talk about meaningless sex, Jimmy. If you start ascribing you know, actual meaning, that negates the meaninglessness of it.”

Well, that hurt. It's perfectly fair, though. House actually has the right to say hurtful things to him for once. Still, he can't help himself from arguing, “you don't mean that.”

House shrugs, heading for the door, limp slightly more pronounced than usual. Of course his pain is bad. Always is when he's upset. Another way in which Wilson is making his life miserable. “Yeah, well,” he says, gripping the handle. “We're having such fun playing pretend I thought we'd carry on. It's your favourite game, right?”

As the door slams behind him, Wilson allows his head to fall into his hands.


End file.
